“Not on your life.”
“I’ll never ask another thing of you.”
Of course she would. “You’ll drop the matchmaking with the Lizzy girl?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“You’ll telephone Dad and explain my hold up here?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ll give me the last crab Rangoon?”
“Maybe.” She winked at Camden, then grinned.
“What would I have to do?” he moaned, running his fingers through his hair.
“It’s not difficult. Sit there, hold your pose and expression, follow my instructions, and daydream for an hour.”
He sighed, then raised his hands in defeat. “Fine. But not nude.”
“Don’t be silly. You think I want my students attacking you? I’m your mother, and I sure as hell don’t want to see you naked!”
The department assistant gave him the once-over. “Can I stay for the class?”
The clamor of descending art students came through the open double doors, and he stood in the corner beside his mother, running his hand through his hair. Not because he was afraid of the horde, but because he hated being the center of attention. His mother knew this, which made it all the more unnerving. He supposed this was another one of her subtle lessons, and, of course, how could he deny her anything when she shared her creative world and motherly love with him so unconditionally.
“Good afternoon, everyone. Please take your easel positions so we can begin on time today.”
He turned, examining the twenty-two diverse students settling behind easels, either standing or seated. All went through the motions of setup, then all eyes eagerly turned to their professor.
“Given that our usual model couldn’t make the class, I have a worthy replacement, albeit clothed. Isn’t he handsome?” She chuckled.
He wanted to die, especially since some of the girls gave him that I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off look.
Wearing suit trousers, an unbuttoned dress shirt, and a tie draped around his neck, he walked to the podium, hands in his pockets. His heart thundered when he stepped up. At his mother’s instruction, he sat on the chair provided, knees apart, hands clasped between them and turned his chin to the right, facing the three easels at the window. As humiliation went, no amount of crab Rangoon could mollify this experience. It ranked up there with his fourth-grade soccer game kick into the opposing team’s goal.
“As usual, we will sketch four short poses in fifteen-minute intervals. Do not forget to measure the height-to-width ratio of the pose before you begin sketching,” she instructed.
Facing toward the window, he watched the three students in his line of vision carefully measure and outline, eyes shifting from their easel to him, but the adorable brunette at the end fascinated him. Her pigtails and paisley kerchief on her head accented her fine, dark eyes and long lashes. Sunbeams shone through the windows upon her like a heavenly vision. Once, she softly smiled at him. Of course she did. He had nowhere else to look but at her, and his gaze probably burned her. Maybe she felt self-conscious with him watching her as though she were the model. He did daydream, imagining himself kissing her plump lips, her pert nose, the curve of her chin ... trailing kisses down her neck to her large …
His pants felt uncomfortably tight, and he replaced her image with the pile of start-up funding pitch decks waiting for him on his desk, but the diversion didn’t last long. Every time she looked at him, their eyes met, prompting him to raise the corner of his mouth and her to look back at the sketch pad. She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to conceal a smile, but kept sketching him, left arm moving fast. Two seconds later, she glanced back with a coy smile.
Then finally, she raised an eyebrow before flashing a million-watt grin.
They were flirting with each other. He with his eyes, and she with her luscious mouth.
Ignoring the professor’s classroom directions, he sat there lost in thought, spellbound by the quirky-cute, slender beauty wearing a print sundress and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots in New York City! She was exactly the type of girl he wanted—someone who didn’t fit into a mold. She was the polar opposite of Beanz or any other girl he brought home—all two of them.Not that he brought Beanz home. She just followed him and Charlie like a lost puppy.
After ten or so minutes, his mother walked to the object of his attention and stood behind her, admiring the sketch. “Very, very good.”
Beaming, the girl looked up over her shoulder.
His mother placed a hand on the student’s shoulder. “Although you’ve deviated from the full-figure lesson, I can appreciate your focus. Excellent choice in replacing the charcoal with a graphite pencil for his eyes, Lizzy.” Her gaze slowly met his, and she gave him that motherly, knowing smile she was so good at.
He’d been played.
EIGHT
